Mumei
by NineStoicCrayolas
Summary: "I have no name." She lied straight through her teeth. Not for you, she thought.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The last Airbender

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The day begins in the darkness, as it usually does in the winter. The winds are cold and biting as Katara leaves the safety of her home to collect the washing rags from Pop Pop and Gran Gran's house. Her mother is expecting her in around five minutes so she makes sure to hurry, not stopping to notice how the horizon darkens, smog and thick black smoke smothering the air.

Katara huffs as she gets to Gran Gran's house with time to spare. Her lungs are burning—she's only five so she hasn't been doing much running—and her cheeks are flushed but she's grinning as she slips into the igloo, flipping the tent flaps open.

"Katara—no!" Her Gran Gran screams.

Her heart stutters in her chest as she takes in the scene. Her grandfather—beloved Pop Pop with a smile on his face and sparkling blue eyes—is slumped on the ground, sticky red blood surrounding his head in a bloodied halo.

She knows, instinctually, _instantly_ , that he's dead.

Katara doesn't know how to feel about that so she puts the image away in her mind, keeping the shock and the rage and the debilitating fear deep inside her mind, to be touched and prodded and cajoled later.

And then she sees her grandmother, struggling, against the grip of an unknown man, clad in dark oranges and fiery reds and deep, smothering black, an ugly smile twisting a pale face. Her long hair is loose against her throat and Katara is suddenly aware of how Gran Gran would let her play with the long white strands whenever she was resting, a pleased smile on her face.

"Gran Gran?" Katara's voice is small in the cramped igloo and she knows her hands are trembling in her gloves, her face is turning white with shock. Katara can feel the moment the unknown man with the strange colors and pale face turns his eyes on her because it burns her skin.

"Run!" Her grandmother screams, thrashing against the man's rough hands and biting metal. "Leave!"

And in this moment, as Katara feels the burning of the man's gaze—those yellow, yellow eyes holding her captive—she knows she must _move_ , she must leave this place if she wants to live but, _but_ this is her grandmother.

And father had always taught her to put family first, even at the cost of your own life.

But Katara also knows she is small.

Her hands are too tiny to make any damage, her body too soft and pliant, not like her father's or even her mother's and there is nothing she could even possibly _hope_ to do against the strange man.

"Gran Gran—"Katara makes a hesitant motion, a split second decision really, to move her foot and suddenly something on the floor—the ice floor—moves.

The strange man doesn't notice it at first but Gran Gran does.

As Katara stares into the desperate blue eyes, she realizes, somewhere deep down, that Gran Gran is begging her to stop that. But Katara, as young as she is, doesn't realize that something is wrong with the picture—her emotions are running too high, her mouth is dry in fear, her fingers trembling—and so the movement of the ice floor only accumulates, turning into a solid, icy wall.

"…A waterbender?" The strange man's voice is harsh, so different to the lulling voices of her tribe, and it terrifies Katara to hear it, so alien in such a familiar setting. The man's gaze swivels away from the tiny, rudimentary ice wall and fixes on her Gran Gran's wide, scared blue eyes and snarls.

"You told us all the waterbenders were dead, witch!"

"Katara run—"But the man—or is it soldier? Katara thinks dazedly for she recognizes the bloodlust and lines of war on his pale, unknown face—slams an iron-coated fist into the elderly woman's mouth, blood splattering the floor around them. Her grandmother's eyes roll back in her head and her body slumps, all movement seeming to have stopped—only the quiet heaving of her chest remains.

"Grandmother!" Katara's voice screeches, arches across the air and creates an explosion of ice and water and fury that leaves the strange man wincing, grinding his teeth to keep his ground against the tiny girl.

There are tears that are running down her face and her breath is coming in harsh pants as she turns to run, suddenly struck by the feeling that she was _prey_ despite the fact that she had obviously thrown him with her ice display.

The man yells out something garbled—a little like a war cry, a little like an enraged scream of fury—and hurls himself at her.

Katara, frantic and tired from water made the water move ( _you,_ a little voice whispers, _you did that_ ) turns to the tent flaps, her breath catching in her throat and her legs burning as she scuttles, trips and tries to escape the iron grip that descends on her neck.

"Little runt." The man's breath is hot on her cheeks and neck and Katara feels like an animal—trapped and caught by the one thing she should have known better than to provoke.

"Argh!" She screams something at him, trying desperately to kick out at his jaw, his leg, _something_ , but her movements are in vain as he hauls her up in his arms, securing her hands behind her.

When he drags her out of the hut, kicking and screaming and crying, the panic in her chest only escalates when she sees the destruction that is being reaped around her.

"See that," There is a strange sort of cruel pride that lines his voice and Katara screeches against his tight grip, desperate to get free and _run,_ "That's what traitors like _you_ get."

There is smoke coming from the igloos that are crushed under the strange, unknown metal from the strange pale men and people screaming from houses. Katara sees Old Man Arruk and his oldest grandson Nokkuk running from a lash of fire— _fire!_ Her mind screams, _fire at the south pole_ —and she watches, momentarily frozen in the man's arms as the she watches them gunned down by the burning heat, watches their skin sizzle and cook under the thick smog of black smoke.

And then someone calls out for her—a familiar voice—and Katara feels fear like ice freeze her lungs and heart as she watches her mother, eyes glistening with rage and bright, bright fear, stumble towards them, her braid fluttering in the wind.

" _Katara!"_

" _Mom!"_

The soldier, momentarily stilled by the destruction and Katara's first comprehensible words, is just as quick to snap back into action, weaving into a pattern of fighting that has Katara wincing at the half-hearted blows the water tribe men are giving him.

Katara knows they see her—their chief's daughter—in his arms and still. Silently, furiously, she curses the soldier for the knowledge he has against her tribe. She knows that no man in the water tribe would ever even think of harming one of their kin—let alone a little girl—and she knows the soldier uses this against them, ready to burn, to maim at their hesitance.

"Katara!" Her mother screams again across the battlefield and Katara sees her father stumble away from a dying soldier, catching her mother by the elbow.

Katara cannot hear the words that form on his lips, but she can _see_ them and it is with such pain that she can make out the syllables of: " _Where is she?"_

Her mother points, half-stumbling, half-ripping bone knives across the pale men, blood splattering across her throat and Katara catches her father's eyes.

" _No!"_ Her father roars and for a moment, the battlefield stills under the weight of his words. Her father is a chief—someone who ordains the highest obedience—and his words have penance for those who disobey him. But much too soon, the world is back in action, the soldiers weaving patterns of fire and burning heat across her home.

"Mom!" Katara screams again, thrashing once more against the hold of the soldier who gripped her too tight. "Mom!"

Her father and mother are weaving a path of destruction, desperation heavy in their gazes as the soldier takes her further and further away, back towards the ships that Katara can see are unloading more and more of them.

They are like tiny, black ants—the ones Gran Gran told her about—running in lines, ready to destroy and kill. For the first time since Katara learned the word _'evil'_ she finally knows, deep in her heart, her veins, what it means as she watches these pale men, these strange, violent soldiers, unleash havoc and pain and destruction on her home.

"What did we do?" Katara howls into the night air and the grip on her neck tightens further. "What did we do to you?"

"Shut up." The soldier's reply is quick and brutal and she feels him move, swiping at the face of another one of her clansmen. For a terrifying moment, Katara thinks she sees a smile curl at his lips and it's only reinforced when he slides a thick sword through the soft skin of one of her tribesmen's throats.

 _Tulak,_ she thinks as she watches the light leave his dark gray eyes and his body slump to the ice, still warm. _Tulak_ , she thinks and remembers how he would give her piggy back rides and play with her brother and fish with their father. _Tulak_ , she thinks, tears in her eyes and pain ripping from her lips, and she knows, deep in her heart, that no matter what or who these soldiers are, she will _never_ forgive them for this.

What happens next is all in a blur and even years later when Katara looks back on these first, painful, raw memories, she cannot remember much more than hoarse yelling, aching fingers and rough hands.

Her mother screams for her once more and Katara shouts something garbled back, the soldier having had enough of her loud cries and screams for help. Katara can see her father, slashing through a soldier, uncaring when he caught a hit to the collarbone, blood dripping down his navy parka.

"Katara!" He screams for her again and something aching and burning roils within her and she stretches out, as if to catch his hands, despite him being across an entire frozen battlefield, helpless.

' _Father!'_ She wants to scream as the soldier's hand comes down on her mouth, stifling her voice. _'Mother!'_ She wants to yell as she sees Kya, her mother, standing strong and fierce against a legion of pale men, her eyes wild for her daughter.

But then the soldier drags her further away, cutting through another clansmen and she sees a warship closer than she'd like.

A muffled yell comes from not too far away and the soldier jerks and instinctually, Katara knows that something will happen. Her body tenses in preparation for something, _anything_ , but still unable to move away when—

A hand crashes down on her neck and the light dims from her eyes, the world fading away in screams and tiny, pinprick black spots, her heart beating in fear— _where will he take me?_

* * *

Sokka is no fool.

Sokka is no fool and so when his father and mother, splattered in blood, return to their home, eyes blank and void, he knows something is wrong. The fighting had stopped hours ago, but still, Sokka remained quiet and barely breathing in his hiding spot. Only when the igloo flaps opened and he heard the familiar scuffing of his parents' warm seal-boots did he dare to move, lifting his head from the carved-out hiding place Gran-Gran had made for provisions and extra storage.

"Mom? Dad?" He asks tentatively, escaping from the hatch, locking it behind him quickly. "What's wrong?"

He watches, taking in familiar figures and slow steps as his parents stand, shifting, on the ice floor. His mother doesn't move instantly and only when his father nudges her does she go to sit on the floor, cradling her head in her hands. As she begins to weep, harsh, hiccupping sobs wracking her body, alarm fills Sokka's chest.

"Mom?" He asks again, a little hysterically.

Sokka has not seen his mother cry since the birth of his sister and these wretched sobs and stuttering gasps of pain are so different compared to the warm, happy tears that slipped out of her warm gray eyes, her hands moving softly on his sister's pudgy newborn skin.

"Sokka." It is his father's voice that stops him in his tracks as he moves to comfort his mother. There is strength in his father's voice, strength that carries through the air and settles in Sokka's bones like a familiar blanket. He raises his eyes to face his father and nearly falls when he sees his father sink down to his knees.

His parents are crumbling and for once, Sokka knows there is no joke he can make to make the pain go away. He stands there, his heart beating heavy in his throat, and watches as his father can only stare at the ice-floor, his fingers picking at the edges of the pelts that Gran-Gran had helped glean from seal hides.

Sokka opens his mouth to ask the question again when his father raises those blank, deadened blue eyes—so similar to his own—to him and answers it before the words can escape his mouth.

"They took your sister."

Horror rises within him, sharp and real, before burning anger replaces it.

His little sister—little Katara with the blue eyes and soft brown hair and gentle smile— _gone._

His little sister, whom, just yesterday was nagging him to ' _eat properly Sokka; don't get a fishbone stuck in your throat'_.

Sokka is no fool.

Pain, sharp, twisted, and malicious, burns throughout his body, and he thinks, he _vows_ to hunt the soldiers down for this. Because they have taken away Katara—his innocent little sister, his best friend—and that cannot go unpunished.

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Enjoy! Tell me your thoughts :) I hope I do this fandom justice because literally, this is my childhood.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender.

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Katara awakes with the lulling of an engine, thrumming underneath her head. Her eyes flutter open, crystalline blue peeking out of dark lashes, taking in the dark cavernous room.

Panic slams into her chest, hard and real and suddenly Katara is reminded of what had happened—

 _(Cold, ice and rage. Soldiers, like little ants, scurrying around, carrying buckets and buckets of fire and wrath for her people, ready to strike out at defenseless tribesmen.)_

She shuddered, trying to draw the blue parka closer, instinctually curling up into a sound, safe ball. Peeking over the tops of her knees, Katara takes in the room with blurry vision, tears slipping down her cheeks.

The room is warm and steamy, reminding Katara of the stories of the spirit oasis deep, deep in the wastes where only the Spiritual Leader and her father The Chief would dare to go, bypassing ravenous sea creatures and dancing past cracked iced oceans. There is only vague light, dull and flickering at the edges of a shut windowpane, drawing attention to the dust that floated lazily, weighed down by the heat of the room.

As she sniffed, trying hurriedly to dry her tears, she realized the absence of color.

Well, there was color—dark reds and mauves, burning oranges and simmering yellows that faded off into blacks—but there was no _color_. There was no normal hues of blue or white or the light iced navy that coated the deep seas. There was nothing that Katara found natural in this room covered by unknown reds and oranges—the mirror which shone dully in the light of lamp, dyeing the room in a pale saffron that made the intricate crimson tapestries that hung off the walls, damp from the heat. She was on a bed, the covers flimsy sheets of dashed reds and oranges, the ends tucked in so tightly Katara had to edge her way out with her elbows.

The door rattled like the a shudder of a giant sea snake and Katara closed her eyes and bit her tongue, trying her best not to whimper in fear at the strange, hulking movements that the room was making. It was unlike she had ever known—these red and yellow walls with blasts of black—and it scared her so soundly she could only squeeze her eyes tighter, desperately hoping that the next time she would wake up was in the safety of her mother's arms, crying from a nightmare.

* * *

The Captain of the ship was considered terrifying.

He was a giant, hulking sort of man—the kind you only see in brawling bars and prisons—and his face was sharp, the high cheekbones jutting, the jaw pronounced before softly giving way to his neck. He was the type of man that had tree trunks for legs and stumps for hands—the type of man that would easily tower over you and you would hope, that maybe, as he stared at you with shadowed eyes, you could easily perform some type of miracle and melt into the floor, unseen.

Yet, for all his ferocity, there was still that warmth in his lumbering frame.

He had gentle hands, despite the callouses, with a soft touch that complimented the warmth in his dark brown eyes. He was someone you looked to in times of need and sorrow, someone you leaned upon for his barrel-chest helped you soak up your tears and say your goodbyes. The Captain was the type of man that once you would get over the initial shock of his graceful bulk, you would slowly learn that he had never not once, hurt anyone without valid reason, that he had often tried to find leeway in the stringent orders of the firenation, hurriedly trying to find options that offered less violence, less malice.

And it was because of this warmth and ingrate kindness that Admiral Zhao knew he would have to take the captive. Who knew what would happen if that wretched _softness_ got in the way of duty?

He curled his lip as he stared at the kind brown eyes of the captain, shielded under the black curls that stuck to his forehead, soaked by the spray of the waves. Even now, he could see the distaste and mistrust in them, could see the way the Captain's hands tightened into fists at the question he was about to ask.

"Where is the prisoner?" Zhao spat, his arms clasping over his chest as he leaned against the railings of the ship, not bothering to ease his tone for the soldiers behind the captain, fidgeting like little school girls.

 _They should have stayed in a daycare center if they could not even handle a tongue-lashing from a superior officer._

"The captive is in the guestroom—"

"The guestroom?" Zhao raised an eyebrow, his displeasure becoming more and more pronounced as he watched the Captain's flicker with discomfort. "What is this? A ferry-ride?"

The Captain bowed his head, his giant hands coming to press against each other in the sign of graceless repentance. Regardless, Zhao could see how they still trembled, trying to suffocate an unease that bubbled up within him. "I apologise, sir. Because this is a commercial vessel from the Earth Kingdom, we were made aware the moment the captive came on board that there is no brig."

Admiral Zhao grounded his teeth and looked away, taking in the heaving waves and the stormy skies, the clouds roiling above the landline like a dishonored god. A smile flickered on his lips and the Admiral glanced back at the nervous crew, noticing that apart from the captain, his right hand and a couple of experienced soldiers, there were not many who seemed any older than eighteen summers.

"Young gentlemen," He straightened up, addressing the troupe, "Was this your first time at sea? Away from the firenation?"

A couple uneasy boys nodded, eyes shifting upwards and connecting with his before glancing back down, tucking their hands behind their backs and bowing in respect. The others merely grunted an approval and Zhao sighed, hoping that maybe, some of these ingrate ruffians would be able to speak on a higher level, perhaps even, if he was letting hope unfurl in his chest, verbally spar.

It had been so long since he had had a good conversation.

It was a pity that all the intelligent people of the Fire and Earth nations were either on the side of the rebel alliance or on the side of the Firelord's.

He could use a couple of acolytes.

"I see your crew is not one for conversation." Zhao's brow creased in displeasure and he noted, with vague, cruel amusement, that the Captain swallowed sharply, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"No, sir. I must apologise, it has been a…trying day." The Captain spoke slowly, as if not to provoke, and the Admiral snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"A trying day? A simple raid?" He mocked, tilting his head to the side and missing the hard gleam that shone in several of the soldier's eyes. "Oh, how I _wish_ the Firelord would reconsider taking on ruffians as soldiers instead of sticking with trained military. Although," Zhao's lips slanted upwards into an understanding smile, a contemptuous look in his eye, "I suppose some people have to become pin-cushions."

A soldier twitched and another coughed behind him, as if embarrassed but Zhao paid no mind.

He was far above these simpletons.

"Nevertheless," He started, settling his expression back into a displeased one, "Take me to our captive."

"Of course, sir." The Captain obliged, stepping aside so Zhao and his own men could pass through.

He never saw the way the Captain's eyes darkened nor how he ushered some of the younger guards to stuff some of the grain inside a gray pouch.

* * *

Katara was trying in vain to sleep when the door slammed open, the mirror on the wall rattling intensely, the lamp nearly crashing to the floor in a heap.

A shadowed figure stood at the doorway, a veiled sneer on its face.

"This is it?"

A hulking shape shifted behind it and Katara swallowed hard, trying to squash the tears of fright that threatened to spill down her cheeks and morph into choking sobs. Her fingers pressed into her palms, the little nails digging so hard they drew blood and still, Katara refused to wince, to do anything but sit still and breathe, quietly, faintly.

Her father had told her once, in the warmth of the fire, sitting on the edge of the wastes, that if a predator approached, she was to sit very still and breathe quietly and do nothing, for it would go away if it lost interest.

"Yes, sir." The lumbering outline murmured softly and in the space of two heartbeats, Katara watched with baited breath, barely daring to blink, as the shadowed figure stepped into the light.

It was a man.

A man with skin paler than the soldier who captured her, yet with an obscure mocking smile curling his lips, a cruel gleam echoing in the depths of his black eyes, a strange sort of malignant heat lining their gray shadows. His face was jutting, the high cheekbones cut off by the sideburns that swept into sharpened points and was instantly reminded of the traditions of her tribe—when someone greased their beard, they would either be getting married or preparing for a funeral—and instantaneously, Katara knew, this man was in no frame of mind to pledge himself to another soul for eternity.

It was in his eyes. That strange, cruel gleam, that had Katara instantly on edge—it was in his eyes that it shone with abandon, ready to pillage and plunder, ready to _kill._

A saying her mother used to say— _Katara, they key to people is within their eyes. There are those with bright futures, bright hearts, and there are those with malice and cruelty layering their gaze; and it is in their eyes that you will know their true character._

And as Katara stared into his eyes, she _knew_ , somehow, that this man held so much hatred in his soul, his _eyes_ that she could only hope that someone would save her.

"Hello, little one." His voice made a lick of fear crawl up her spine, lighting her nerves on fire, her instincts screaming at her to run, to _get away from this man right away._

Yet, Katara stayed still, not moving, hoping that despite the fervent reality, somehow this vision would abate and disappear within the consequences of a sick mind, childish nightmares— _anything except the truth._

"You do not speak?" He questioned again, coming into the room closer, his cruel eyes fluttering over her frame, just lingering on the color of her skin, a faint look of disgust appearing on the otherwise stoic face.

"She is scared, Admiral." _Admiral?_ Katara thought, desperately trying to find someone of the rank within her tribe yet failing, _What is that?_ "She has just been displaced—"

"Displaced?" The cruel man—the _Admiral_ —raised an eyebrow at the hulking frame behind him and Katara had the sickening sensation that he would lash out just to make an example of him. "This _thing_ is a child of war. She has committed crimes unparalleled to any of those in the Fire Nation—she has made the error of being born a Water child instead of one of Fire and that alone must be punished severely. Not to mention that she has grown up within a tribe of savages—there is no telling what kind of barbaric traditions and manners she has, Captain."

The hulking figure—the _Captain_ Katara corrects gently in her mind—is somewhat cowed, but she can still see, in the fleeting light, the way his jaw tenses in the darkened corridor.

The Admiral turned back towards her.

He appraised her with a downwards curl of his mouth and then took three steps forward before grasping her chin in freezing hands and tilting her head up. She tried her best not to tremble but as she bit her lip, eyes smarting, Katara knew she wasn't fooling anyone.

"My name is Admiral Zhao. You will address me as such." He told her, fingers squeezing so hard Katara knew she'd have bruises by the end of tomorrow, and then turned towards the Captain, a sneer on his face. "She is a pretty one. Maybe in a few years…"

Fear, hot and unbridled rose within her and everything inside her willed to jerk away, but some part of Katara had been reduced to following only the barest of her instincts and so, she remained still, quiet and trembling within the clutches of the Admiral.

"Bring her over to my ship immediately." The Admiral says, drawing himself up straight, his fingers letting go of her chin and letting the Captain pass through before he leaves through the door, not even bothering to close it shut behind him.

There is silence for a minute and Katara wonders, as she stares at the hulking Captain, why she is not as terrified as she was with Zhao.

"Hello." His voice was lulling as he came forward and Katara raised her eyes quickly to see dark comforting brown, concern and regret lining those dark ochre eyes.

 _If he feels so much regret,_ a vicious voice said in her head, _then why did he attack my home?_

"I know you probably think we're all bad. We attacked your home unprovoked after all." Katara starts, unhappy that he is able to read her thoughts so clearly on her face. The Captain hedges at the door, his fingers fidgeting the bottoms of his sleeves before carefully coming closer and sitting down. Katara said nothing, merely staring mutely at the scarred face before her.

His thick eyebrows furrowed downwards at her continued mutiny and he sighed, crossing the tree branches he called arms. "We're not all bad. And I know that's probably not what you want to hear now. But they've got a lot of our children prisoner. Well not prisoner—but yes, you get the idea."

Again, Katara said nothing, remembering the way the pale soldier had knocked her grandmother unconscious, how he slashed through tribesmen like Tulak and Nokkuk as easily as a hot knife through butter and she knows it will take much more than the kind words of a Captain to ease over the wounds that have been grooved into her young mind.

The Captain leaned forward, his mouth set in a tense line, eyes pleading. "Even if you hate us, even if you wish to blast us off the earth, _please_ take my advice. I think you're going to need it if you're going to the royal palace."

"Royal palace?" The whisper is out of her mouth before she can choke it down and Katara flinches at the controlled happiness that echoes within those dark brown depths.

"Yes." The Captain sobered up, eyebrows furrowing once more, "It is one of the cruelest places you can be sent to outside the labor camps. I believe it is because you are the Last Waterbender of the South. One of Zhao's men reported it and so because of that and your rather…exotic skin, you will be brought there as perhaps a prize? I am not sure myself. I can only plead you to be careful, to always think twice before you speak."

There is an uneasy moment where Katara does not want to trust this man.

He has, after all, led the raid that killed not only her clansmen but her grandfather and perhaps—she stifles the whimper that nearly comes from her lips—her mother, father and brother. She does not know if this man and his men have killed her culture, her people and yet, as she stares into dark brown eyes, thinking of imploring words and the personal danger he must have put himself in to even talk to her, she relents.

"Thank you." She tells him quietly, easing her grip on her knees.

She still does not trust these men, these people, but she is open to small kindnesses. Katara merely hopes that what he has said about the labor camps and the royal palaces is untrue and that his warnings would heed false.

A small, regretful smile plays on his mouth before heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. In an instant, the Captain is on his feet, her collar stuck between his giant hands, her feet dangling in midair.

"Girl, make sure to act like you are desperate." Those are the Captain's last words to her before a mean scowl appears on his face and he begins to move.

Katara lets herself go limp, hoping that the pressure in her eyelids is merely the anxiety and not the rage that bubbles up inside her.

* * *

Enjoy! Tell me your thoughts if you wish :) Thank you for reading.


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